In Another Reality
by Benedictorium
Summary: "The 'multiverse' is the theoretical set of infinite or finite possible universes that encompasses everything that exists and can exist. The entirety of space, time, matter and energy is 'contained' in this multiverse."


IN ANOTHER REALITY:

Sherlock sat in his thinking chair in 221B, his former _sanctum sanctorum_; it became a home to all the demons in his head. He glanced at all his past experiments, the skull on the wooden mantelpiece, his dossiers filed with old case papers scattered everywhere from the floor to the kitchen top; he reminisced about all the fun he had with those. He looked around the room, stopping at the yellow smiley face plastered on the wall. He saw the bullet holes that he inflicted on the face, thinking that it bloody deserved them. Its fluorescent yellow smile tormented Sherlock's frame of mind; it reminded him of John, _his _John, the adventures they shared, the cases he and Sherlock solved together, the lifetime of memories and the strange, inexplicable happiness that came with those. Sherlock cherished them; the few years they spent together were the best ones Sherlock's ever lived – around him, the voices in his head hushed, around him, he was a different and a (debatably) better man. Sherlock chuckled to himself; he could still remember that particular case at Dartmoor, how inquisitive he was, he always found that quite charming. But as he thought of his past cases with John – notably 'A Study in Pink' as he described it, since it was the first case they solved together – he felt this overwhelming amount of sadness attack what's left of his little heart, and he sobbed nostalgic tears with such might that you could almost hear the thunder booming through his voice. He composed himself, his porcelain face stained with tear streaks. He wiped the excess of tears with his long, narrow fingers and flicked them away. He reclined further into his chair, letting the leather embrace him, stroking his black curls, as he hung his head in his hands and dryly said:

"_The man_, crying… Pitiful."

He stood up and fixed his long, black coat that accommodated his tall, thin stature. He opened the laptop, hoping to find a small case (under an alias) to distract him from the 'dismality' of his situation, not realizing that he hadn't closed John's blog. He saw that John had posted new posts, two to be precise. He read them thoroughly, fighting back the salty tears that invaded his blood-shot eyes, ever so-demanding to cascade down and feel his refined cheekbones.

November 12, 2014:

I'm fine now; I've fully recovered from the car crash, thank you for all your well wishes and support during these dark times…

Sherlock knew that those dark times weren't just the car crash. The second message ran:

October 1, 2015:

I've finally dropped the bloody bachelor status! I'm so happy to be married to her.

The last message felt like a gunshot to Sherlock's heart. He promptly slammed the laptop shut, he couldn't take a case today… Not today. Sherlock heard the door creak open, however he didn't see Mrs Hudson enter the room.

"Are you okay?" She asked with a heavy heart. Sherlock managed to let out a grumble. "Dear, you need to tell him that you're alive."

"I couldn't possibly fathom his reaction," He said quietly, his voice quivering, "Besides, he's happy now, and I believe that that's all that matters."

Mrs Hudson knew that she couldn't persuade Sherlock to do something he didn't want to; she left the room without further bothering Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed his precious violin, and started to compose a new piece in front of his window, it helps him to think. Sometimes, he saw John walking past the apartment building, smiling, happily talking away on his phone; however he never glanced up to see if anyone was home in the apartment. _He's given up on the idea of me being alive, _he thought to himself. Sherlock smiled sadly and whispered:

"I would've given up as well."

Sherlock walked over to his bookshelf, examining his plethora of books interlocked with some of John's books, ranging from poetry written in dead languages to a book that outlines the effects Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He stopped on a book that caught his eye, a book he hasn't read in a while, gathering dust in the corner – a book that defines the theory of 'multiverse'. _Multiverse, brilliant_, he mused. He reads a little excerpt of the book out loud.

"The 'multiverse' is the theoretical set of infinite or finite possible universes that encompasses everything that exists and can exist. The entirety of space, time, matter and energy is 'contained' in this multiverse."

This theory conjures up a little thought in Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock thought about the possibility of this 'multiverse' theory being true. If this were the case, would it be possible to exist in more than one universe? Would it be possible to live a different life in each universe? Sherlock wonders what would happen if these possibilities were feasible, if he could exist in all these universes and live these different lives, would he still be this sociopathic genius or would he be this completely different being?

"Obviously the sociopathic genius, I couldn't live with myself if I wasn't," He subconsciously says out loud before diving back into the depths of his mind.

He thinks about living these different lives with John.

Sherlock wonders if in another universe, he and John would be reunited, they'd solve cases together once more, like the good old days. They wouldn't be romantically involved - even though it'd make Sherlock slightly unhappy- but at least Sherlock had him there, and that made a world of difference.

In a completely different universe, perhaps Sherlock does get his way, and they'd be madly in love, an abundance of lust. They'd both have this insatiable want for something _more_ than just the platonic friendship they had. They'd want to get to know each other more intimately; Sherlock would definitely enjoy memorizing the little curves that John had; the shape of his lips, how his being would look being pleasured, how his eyes would dilate, how his pulse would quicken as he quietly pants at Sherlock's rough touch. Sherlock would make a map of John's body, drawing out every inch and detail as he explores his form, being his cartographer.

Perhaps the two would simply travel the world, escape the hustle and bustle of London. They'd solve cases; they would make a name for themselves. Maybe they could chronicle their adventures, condense all these memories in a single book, not for anyone else's eyes to indulge in, but just for the two of them to enjoy.

In another universe, it would be their 20th wedding anniversary. They'd still live in 221B, occasionally taking a case or two, but their bones have gotten weary. They'd spend this anniversary alone. They lit the fireplace since it had been snowing outside. Blankets of snow covered everything on the street; cars, window sills. The fire radiated out heat, giving the room a peaceful vibe. John had been in Sherlock's arms, trying to keep warm since he was freezing. Sherlock always loved how his little nose turns a rosy shade of red whenever he was cold or was embarrassed.

"It's been 20 great years, my dear Watson," Sherlock remarked. John weaved his icy fingers through Sherlock's curls – which were laced with grey strands, signs of aging.

"Bloody hell, 20 years? I didn't know you had it in you!" John teased. Sherlock took this in good humour, and laughed. John removed himself from the embrace and walked to one of the bedrooms, Sherlock followed. He rummaged through the closet, emerging shortly after with a gift in his hand.

"Oh, John, you shouldn't have!" Sherlock ripped the gift wrap off, revealing a photo of the two in their prime days. You could see them in front of 221B; standing next to each other, both gave a small smile towards the camera. "Brilliant," Sherlock walks over to the mantelpiece and replaced the skull with the frame, "There, doesn't that look great? Now, my turn!" Sherlock ran to his bedroom and took out a fairly bulky present. John eagerly opened the gift, revealing a new sweater, one that John had his eye on for quite some time.

"This must've cost a fortune!"

"I have my ways, happy anniversary," smiling as he said it. Sherlock walked to his violin and started to play a song he composed himself.

"A new piece?"

"Just for this moment," John closed his eyes and enjoyed Sherlock's composition dance in his ears.

Maybe in a different universe, the two of them would have a child together.

"Named Hamish," He recalled John telling him while they were on a case.

He and John would love Hamish with all their heart, Sherlock would teach him all he knows, John would teach him how to be strong – just as he was when was dealing with PTSD – they'd raise this child in a happy, comfortable household, give him all he wants; maybe take him with them in their not-so gory cases. They'd watch him blitz through high-school, fly through college, pursuing in whatever he wanted to be, they would support him regardless. They'd watch Hamish graduate, _Valedictorian_, he thought, and watch him grab his diploma. Sherlock and John would be in the sidelines, holding hands and proudly say to one another:

"We've done well."

They'd watch him leave to move into his own house, Sherlock imagined that it'd be a fairly big house with a small garden and a large backyard for his future kids to play in. He could imagine Hamish saying 'goodbye', hugging his parents for the last time before heading out into the vast world on his own, finding his own way through life. Hamish would still visit from time to time, to show his children their grandfathers. Sherlock and John would recount tales of their adventures with one another, their grandchildren would listen eagerly, they would think that their grandfathers were legendary and daring; they loved visiting them.

"They're lovely kids," John would say.

"Indeed, Hamish taught them well."

"Just like you did," John grinned. Sherlock chuckled, taking John in his arms and squeezed him.

"I don't say this often, John, but I love you."

"I know… Idiot," John said before placing his lips on Sherlock's.

Sherlock woke up, he must've fallen asleep daydreaming about the other realities he wished he could've lived, realities he could've lived with John. These other universes, these other lives, dug deeper holes into Sherlock's heart. How painful it was to know that such fantasies could never happen. He walked into John's old room, he never had the heart to get rid of anything; this room was the only thing he had left of John. He looked through his closet, catching a whiff of John's natural scent as he fumbled through his myriad of jumpers made for special holidays. He grabbed one of his jumpers; he wore this one to Christmas parties, and hugged it tightly. Oh, how he wished he could've felt this material while John wore it. He found his old cane, the one he used to walk on when they first met. He put all the jumpers back exactly as they were, and he sat on his bed. The pillows were gathering dust, so he lifted one up and smacked it gently, the dust particles flying everywhere. He noticed that there was a small, crumpled piece of paper, initially obscured by the pillow, caught between the mattress and the bed frame. He picked it up and analysed the note:

_"Sherlock, out of all the ridiculous things that you've done, this is the one that's confused me the most. You confessed that you were a fake; that you created Moriarty; that you researched me before-hand on the day we met, but I know who you were. You were the most brilliant man I've ever met… You were my only friend, my best friend… I was so alone and I owe you so much… I just wanted a chance to tell you how I felt, how much I lo… Just please… you weren't a fake, you were clever enough… You were the only person who could have ever done that. Nobody could ever tell me that you were anything less than a hero. _

_I just want to wish for one last thing; just stop this, this whole bloody charade… for me…_

_Please don't be dead."_

He took the note into his hands and held it to his empty heart as he weeps, the heart-wrenching pain of knowing John had felt the same, that he had loved him as well, was too much to handle. What a fool Sherlock had been, putting his own pride, his ego, before John's wellbeing. He went back into the main room and opened the laptop, still being on John's blog. He clicked on his newest status and typed a comment, a response:

"John, I'm sorry for a lot of things. I'm sorry that I never got to tell you how much I love you, if I wasn't so vain and so proud, I would have told you how I felt as I locked my lips with yours, looking deep into your blue eyes and uttering words that I have never told anyone in my life. I had missed so many opportunities, to tell you how I felt, I regret letting every single one of those chances go, because look at me now, such a broken man. I'm sorry for faking my death, and never deciding to tell you that I was alive. I could see that you've already moved on, and I knew that if I came back, I would put you in a far worse position, destroying that beautiful smile you've worked so hard to have on your face. Or maybe I was just afraid, I was afraid to confront you because I didn't know how you would react. But I realize now, it didn't matter how you reacted, because if I had told you, you would still be with me, by my side, maybe at this present moment. We could still be solving cases, we could still be here in 221B; we could be happy, just like in the old days. But most of all, I'm sorry that you never got the chance to tell me how you felt, how you really felt. I'm sorry for being selfish, self-centred; all the possible synonyms that relate. I'm just so sorry.

However, I learnt about this theory, the 'Multiverse'. It states that there could be more than the one universe we exist in; in fact, there could be an infinite amount of universes. I hypothesized that if this were the case, it could be possible to live different lives in every universe. Every possible scenario that could have happened in this reality is happening in another reality. Just imagine it, in another universe; things would be back the way they were. In another universe, we have confessed our love to each other; we had kids and watched them grow up to become amazing adults; we might've lived long enough to celebrate our 20th anniversary together, we might've grown old together, teasing one another about the grey hairs that engulfed our heads or the wrinkles that Time painted on our faces as we enjoyed the heat of the fire and the warmth of each other. In these other universes, we are happy. We are happy together. And this provides me with some consolation, knowing that somewhere, you had gotten the chance to tell me that you loved me…

And I would have let you."


End file.
